


The Angel Watching Over Him

by Shay_Bee



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive John Winchester, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Canon Rewrite, Canon-Typical Violence, Coda, Coming Out, Depression, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, John Winchester Being an Asshole, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:53:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28093455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shay_Bee/pseuds/Shay_Bee
Summary: Destiel is one of the greatest love stories ever told on network television, but it never got the respect it deserved. While episode 15x18 made the ship sort of cannon, fans have still had to sort through subtext to uncover their epic romance. This fic is a reworking of the cannon universe that gives Destiel the respect and screentime it deserves. This fic will be a large project made up of codas and rewrites of certain episodes/plotlines to transform Destiel from merely unrequited subtext to concrete text. This fic is how Supernatural *should* have been written; with Destiel as the endgame relationship.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 12
Kudos: 33





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone, and welcome to my fic! This will be a longer project that I envision will end up between 50-75K words. I've already got the first couple of chapters written out, and will hopefully update on Tuesdays weekly. I still don't like the title, so any suggestions you have would be greatly appreciated.
> 
> Warning that this fic is rated M for a reason, and it may shift to an E depending on future chapters. I will give trigger warnings at the beginning of each chapter. Read the tags, please. I'll continue to update the tags as I go. This fanfic will include serious issues like internalized homophobia/biphobia, depression, and suicidal thoughts. Additionally, it will include cannon-normative violence. Because I am sticking close to the cannon universe with only minor rewrites, assume that cannon relationships are going to be mentioned in this fic. I really don't want to tag them all, but I'll give you a heads up at the beginning of the chapter if the writing goes into details of a relationship besides Dean/Castiel.
> 
> Trigger warnings: child neglect (because John Winchester sucks), child abuse (because John Winchester sucks), and implied alcoholism (because John Winchester sucks).

Dad had been drinking from the bottles Dean was not allowed to touch. They were special grown-up drinks. Dean wasn’t quite sure why his dad liked to drink his special grown-up drinks so much. He would always fall asleep after drinking them and wake up grumpy the next day. Dean liked it when his dad was grumpy, though. When he was grumpy, his dad would always talk to Dean and tell him to be quiet. When Dean was quiet, his Dad would give him a smile, like he was really proud that Dean could be so quiet and good. It was better than when he was sad and would just watch blankly as Dean played with his trains. Dad was sad a lot.

Dean was sad a lot too. He missed his old house. At his old house, he had his own room with all his own toys. Dean loved to play with his trains and make a train track that went all around his room. Mommy always made Dean put the train tracks away before bedtime, but that was okay ‘cause it just meant that the next day, Dean could make his train track all over again!

But now they were in the new house. It wasn’t much of a house, really. It was very small. And cold. Dean didn’t have his own room anymore. He had to share with his baby brother, Sammy. Dean didn’t like sharing a bedroom with Sammy, ‘cause he was a baby. Sammy always woke up and started crying and that would wake Dean up. But Dean wasn’t allowed to cry when he woke up. Even if he woke up from a nightmare filled with yellow flames. Dad told Dean he was a big boy now, and when you are a big boy, you can’t cry. Sometimes it was very hard not to cry, but Dean tried his best. That’s Sammy’s job, ‘cause Sammy the baby.

Sammy woke up that night and started to cry. Which woke Dean up, and made Dean want to cry too. ‘Cause he didn’t like it when he got woken up by Sammy. But Dean didn’t cry. He pretended to be asleep. Dad always made sure to wake up when Sammy cried and put him back to sleep himself. But Sammy kept crying and their dad didn’t come. And then Dean remembered that his dad had drank a lot of his special grown-up drinks and probably wouldn’t wake up, no matter how hard Sammy cried.

Dean got out of bed and went over to Sammy’s crib. Sammy seemed to cry even more once Dean got closer. Dean was too short to get Sammy out of his crib, so he sat down next to the crib criss-cross-applesauce and stuck his hand through the bars. Sammy immediately grabbed onto his fingers and wailed louder.

“Ssh, Sammy,” Dean told his little brother. “It’s okay.”

“Mamamama,” Sammy babbled.

Dean knew that Sammy didn’t understand what that word meant. Sammy was only eight months old. Sometimes he would say a word, but mostly it was just baby talk. He didn’t know what his words meant yet.

“Sammy, you gotta go back to bed,” Dean told his little brother with a frown.

Sammy sniffled, but his crying subsided somewhat.

“It’s okay, Sammy,” Dean repeated. He floundered for a moment, searching for the right words to say, but he found them after a moment. “There are angels watching over you. Mommy said so. And the angels won’t let anything bad happen, ‘cause they’re super good people. Can you believe that, Sammy?”

Sammy stopped crying, but wouldn’t let go of Dean’s hand when he tried to pull away. So Dean did the only thing he could think of doing: he sang Hey, Jude. His rendition had that quality that only children singing songs are capable of obtaining. The melody was somewhat stilted and off-key. He couldn’t quite remember all the words, so some phrases repeated endlessly while other verses were skipped. But eventually, baby Sammy was lulled back to sleep. Dean removed his hand from the crib and shuffled back to his bed, falling back to sleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

**...**

Once Dean was old enough to prepare a microwave dinner by himself, he ended up watching Sammy a lot. Their dad was gone more often than he was home…. Wherever their home may be at that moment. The family of three crisscrossed their way across the country, stopping at a motel here, maybe renting a cottage for a month, before continuing on. They spent a lot of time with Uncle Bobby and Pastor Jim. That was nice. Dean liked it when he could stay at one school for a few months.

Dean was not stupid. He was almost ten years old! He knew that his dad spent time away from home fighting monsters. Dean hoped his dad would take him out hunting monsters one day. He already knew how to shoot. John made sure that Dean could hit a bullseye, and any time that Dean was left in charge of Sammy, he had a gun within reach.

Dean refused to sing his little brother to sleep anymore (“That’s embarrassing Sammy. Only babies want to hear a goodnight song.”), but he would always make sure to tuck Sammy in before turning out the lights. Even if they were at Pastor Jim’s or Uncle Bobby’s place, Sammy would insist that it was Dean who would put him to bed.

Most nights, Dean would read his brother a story. _The Cat in the Hat_ was Sammy’s favorite. Dean would stumble over most of the words, but Sammy loved the pictures and was even getting smart enough to read some of the words and sentences.

One night, while Dean was reading to Sammy, just like he had many times before.

“‘Then Sally and I did not know what to say. Our mother was out of the house for the day,’” Dean read out loud. “‘But our fish said--’”

“Are we like the boy and girl in this book?” Sammy interrupted with a frown.

Dean stopped reading and looked at his brother. “Whaddya mean?” he asked.

“Our dad leaves us alone too,” Sammy said with a slight pout.

“Well dad isn’t a girl, so he’s not like the mom in this book,” Dean said as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“Dean, that’s not what I meant,” Sammy whined.

“Look,” Dean said gruffly, “Dad only leaves us alone because he’s doing important work, okay?”

“What kind of work?”

“He sells stuff. Important stuff. For the government,” Dean lied.

“Is he a spy?” Sammy asked. “Is he spying on the Russians?”

“No. Don’t be stupid.”

“Where’s our mom? Everyone else in my class has a mom.”

“I’ve told you this before. She’s gone. She died.”

“How did she die?”

“Why do you wanna know? Stop asking all these stupid questions.”

“Dean--”

“Sam, I said no!” Dean shouted, suddenly sounding a lot like their father. Sam looked at him with wide hazel eyes filled with confusion and hurt. Dean sighed and closed the book, setting it down beside Sammy’s bed. With resignation, he said, “What do you wanna know?”

“What did she look like? Was she pretty?”

“You’ve seen photos of her,” Dean grumbled.

“I only got to look at them once,” Sammy pouted, crossing his arm. “I don’t have a good rememory.”

“Memory, Sam,” Dean said with a smile, poking his brother’s stomach. Sam giggled slightly and squirmed away from Dean’s teasing.

“Yeah, whatever. I only got to see the photos, once, Dean. I can’t re… uh, remember them,” he said, taking time to pronounce the word correctly.

“I can’t remember too good,” Dean admitted sadly. “I was, uh, I think I was four when she… Well, y’know. But she had really pretty hair. It was yellow, uhm, blonde, and really long and wavy.”

“Like Rapunzel!” Sammy shouted with glee.

“Where’d you even learn a princess story?” Dean teased. “What are you, a girl?”

“Shuddup,” Sammy said, shoving his older brother’s shoulder slightly. “What else?”

“Uhm. Well. She had a nice smile, I think. She used to make really good food. And sometimes, she would make pie. Her pie was the best.”

“You like all pie,” Sammy pointed out.

“Hey, don’t mock my love for pie,” Dean joked. His smile faded away and he said softly, “She had a nice laugh too. Not like an annoying high laugh, y’know. It was soft and low. I remember, before bed she would tell me that angels were watching over me.”

“Are they?”

“Are they what?”

“Are there angels really watching over us,” Sam asked. There was a gleam of hope in his eyes. “Pastor Jim told me there’s a heaven and our mom is up there with the angels. Do you think she’s watching over us?”

“Of course she’s in heaven,” Dean said with feigned conviction. “And our mom’s up there with the angels. Y’know what? I bet she is an angel.”

Sam smiled wide, but the smile shifted into a yawn.

“Alright, sleepyhead,” Dean said, pulling the covers up to Sammy’s chin. “Lights out.”

Even though his brother slept soundly in the motel bed across from him, Dean didn’t sleep much that night. Because Dean wasn’t stupid. He was almost ten years old. He knew that his dad wasn’t like most dads. He knew that most dads didn’t drink as much whiskey and spent more time at home. He knew that most families had two parents, a mom and a dad and that most families stayed in one home. He knew that his dad fought monsters every day. He knew that his dad was a hero who saved people. Dean knew that when he grew up, he wanted to be just like his dad and save people too.

But most importantly, Dean knew that there was no such thing as angels. Or, if there were, they didn’t care about people. Because if they did, angels would be working hard like his dad did to save people. If there were such things as angels, they wouldn’t have let his mom die.

**…**

It was Christmas when Sam learned the truth about the world. His little brother was only eight years old, and Dean’s heart clenched when he watched the revelation break Sammy’s heart. But Dean couldn’t lie to him. Sammy was too smart to fall for Dean’s lies anyway. So he told him that yes, everything he read in John’s journal is true. That there were monsters out there, and that their dad fights them. He tried to convince his brother that their dad was a hero; he saves people.

Dean could tell that his efforts weren’t working. Even though their Christmas turned out alright, Sammy still had that soft, heartbroken look that wouldn’t go away, no matter how many Christmas movies they watched. The only thing that got Sammy’s mouth to twitch upwards in a true smile was when Dean clutched the small amulet his little brother had given him to his heart and told his brother solemnly before bed that he would never take it off.

**…**

They were waiting in a church for Uncle Bobby to pick them up. Other than a few people who filtered in and out to pray, the large Catholic sanctuary was empty save for them. Their dad had gotten a call about a hunt and dropped the boys off at the nearest safe location. Sam stared silently at the walls while Dean read from a battered paperback copy of Vonnegut’s _Cat’s Cradle_.

“The paintings are very pretty,” Sam remarked out of the blue. Dean looked up from his yellowing pages and followed Sam’s gaze to a mural of an angel, with flowing white robes, strumming on a harp.

“Yeah, I guess,” Dean said. “He’s pretty,”

Sam laughed. “Pretty? Did you just call a dude pretty?”

“Shut up. I said ‘it.’ As in the painting, dumbass. I said ‘it’s pretty.’”

“Yeah, sure Dean,” Sam said with a smile.

“Look, guys can be pretty like girls y’know,” Dean said with a mischievous grin. “Like you. You’re a guy, but you’re pretty like a girl.”

“No, you’re the pretty one,” Sam insisted, failing to come up with a clever comeback.

“Well, Debrah Price from that last school we went to thought I was ruggedly handsome,” Dean said with a lewd eyebrow wiggle.

“Ew. Gross, Dean,” Sam said, pulling his best bitchface.

“Stop joking in a church. It’s disrespectful.” Uncle Bobby interrupted, whacking the boys playfully on the back of their heads before taking them back to Singer Auto.

**…**

At seventeen, Dean became his dad’s best hunting partner. He also became much better at poker and hustling pool. After coming back from his stint in reform school with Sonny, Dean dedicated his summer to hunting. He took down Wendigos, Werewolves, Vengeful Spirits, and Zombies. Forget maths, Dean was learning the quickest way to excavate a grave and the best method for digging a shallow one.

Sam was thirteen, so he came on some of the less dangerous hunts. But mostly he liked to hang back and do research instead. Dean could tell that John wished Sam was more interested in actively hunting (extra backup was always preferable), but he still ruffled his younger son’s hair and praised his research. After all, as John liked to say, they needed to know what they were up against.

One day, in the boggy August heat of Mississippi, Dean found a random payphone to call Sam. His little brother picked up on the second ring.

“Dean? What’s up?”

There was a hint of concern to Sam’s voice, and Dean couldn’t help but roll his eyes at that. “Stop sounding so worried. I ain’t dead yet.”

“Too bad. I was hoping you were,” Sam quipped back quickly through the phone.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever,” Dean said, leaning against the payphone wall. “Look, we talked to the witnesses and they described seeing a woman with wings and claws basically swooping down and grabbing the victim. They said as soon as it appeared, there was a bunch of wind and stuff, and as soon as it was gone, the wind just stopped.”

“So it was like a bird-woman?” Sammy asked incredulously.

“Yeah, I suppose,” Dean chuckled. “Fits with where the vic was found. Y’know, in a human-sized nest at the top of a tree.”

“Do you have more details?” Sam asked. “Specifics about what it looked like?”

“The witnesses all said it had long hair and y’know. Two nice sized melons,” Dean snorted into the phone.

“I don’t know what that means,” Sam said, his obvious frustration dripping through the phone line.

“Sammy, you’re thirteen. I’m talkin’ about tits, man. Boobs. Jesus, you need to get your nose out of these books and into some real-life--”

“Okay, I get the picture,” Sam interrupted with a huff. “You’re so gross. Okay, I’ll hit the lore. I think I’ll start with angels--”

“Uh, what?” Dean stuttered. “Sammy, this thing isn’t an angel. Angels don’t exist.”

There was silence on the other end of the line.

“Sammy?” Dean asked the silent phone.

“Of course angels are real. Demons are real, aren’t they?”

“Uh, well. I haven’t heard a single hunter who’s ever met, or seen, an angel. They’re…. They’re just not real. Some things are just myths. Like Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster.”

There was more silence on the other end of the line before Sam finally said, “Okay. Not an angel. I’ll look through the lore.”

With that, there was a click.

Sam called later that day. They were hunting a Harpy; a female wind spirit from Greek mythology who was half bird, half woman, and liked to torture their victims. Beheading with a machete or stabbing it in the heart with a copper blade would take care of it.

**…**

Dean got his GED. Sammy was on track to get a high school diploma with astonishingly high grades. Dean found college guides and admission tips hidden under motel beds. He tried to convince Sammy not to apply. He tried to talk to his dad and convince him that maybe Sam could get a degree that would help them. He could go to college and study mythology, or religions, or linguistics-- but John wouldn’t hear it. And Sam wanted to be a lawyer, anyway.

Sam and John got into more fights than pleasant conversations, but that night was the worst. Items were thrown across the motel room. Sammy, Dean’s younger brother, seemed to tower over their father. His hazel eyes were filled with fury and anger and hurt.

“I know this is the right choice. I’ve been praying about this!” Sam had screamed.

“Praying? Praying! To who? No one is listening! Son, you are not going to do this,” John had shouted back.

At some point, Dean tuned it out and sat blankly on the motel room bed as beer bottles were shattered and curses were flung. He sat there until the motel door slammed shut and he was left with John who promptly started chugging whiskey.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Dean remembered a flash of golden blonde hair and the whispered promise, “Angels are watching over you.” One of the only things he could remember about his mother. His memory of her, the clearest memory of her, was his mother telling him a lie.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took an extra week to write. I kept struggling with what I wanted to include.
> 
> The rating has been changed to E. Nothing is E in this chapter, but in the future, it will be.
> 
> Pairings in this chapter: mentions of Dean/Lisa, Dean/OFCs, and brief Dean/Cassie and Dean/OMC
> 
> Trigger Warnings: alcohol as a coping mechanism. Homophobic language, thoughts, and ideas. Dubcon touching between Dean and an OMC (because Dean is drunk). Cannon-typical violence.

Besides salt, silver is a hunter’s best weapon. Yeah sure, iron is good for dealing with spooks. But silver… Now that’s something Dean couldn’t live without. Unfortunately, evil sons of bitches tended to be snobs, which meant silver plating just wouldn’t cut it. Solid, pure silver was the only thing that would hurt supernatural creatures.

A steady income is not something that comes with being a hunter. Therefore, the way Dean (and most other hunters) got their silver was by stealing it. Raiding an antique shop and melting down old candelabras and jewelry provided the best results. And robbing antique shops was no easy task. It made silver a valuable commodity in the hunter community.

Dean didn’t waste bullets. On February 25th, 2002, in the frigid winter of Montana, Dean shot a skinwalker right through the heart, first try, from 25 yards away. The skinwalker he and John had been tracking disguised itself as a large Akita. The white, fluffy color of the dog’s fur made it near impossible to find in the snowy landscape.

The gunshot echoed through the snowy forest. A few birds flew away from the noise, taking to the sky in a frenzy. He waited a moment to make sure the skinwalker wasn’t getting back up before shuffling forwards through layers of fresh snow towards the corpse. In death, the skinwalker reverted back to its human form. From where he was, Dean could make out the figure of a naked woman resting face down in the snow.

In the quiet of the woods, his footsteps seemed obscenely loud. With each step, Dean sank at least a foot into the powdered snow, compressing it with his weight. The snow made an odd sound, somewhere between a crunch and a squelch, as it compacted. Vaguely, Dean thought of those snowshoes people wear, the ones that look like tennis rackets, to keep themselves from leaving footprints. It would be a good investment to make. After all, it would be far too easy for someone, supernatural creature or otherwise, to track him in the snow. Every snowy bootprint was an irreversible mark on the ground showing that Dean Winchester had been there.

When he reached the body, Dean felt a twist in his stomach. He recognized her long, brown hair. She was one of the witnesses he and John had interviewed while tracking the skinwalker. They had no idea that _she_ was the skinwalker.

Alexis. Her name was Alexis. Dean was pretty sure of it.

Even though Dean had killed her mere moments ago, all the life had already seeped from her skin. Dean reached forwards and grabbed her shoulder, flipping the corpse onto her back. The movement caused her hair to fan out around her head like a halo. Dean could see the bullet wound, now. It was a clean hole, nestled near perfectly between her breasts. In this cold weather, blood did not flow easily, as it tended to congeal and freeze. Nevertheless, a small trickle leaked out and cascaded down her sides to tangle in her hair. 

Dean almost knelt down to run his hands through that hair. He had done it before. How many days ago? Four, he thought. Maybe. Everything seemed a bit blurry at that moment. But he could remember the bed, a hotel bed, with dark blue sheets. She had laid on her back, and as Dean joined her, he remembered thinking that her hair, her long, dark brown hair spread out around her head like a halo.

Dean was not a romantic. He was about as far from a romantic as one could be. Dean was a self-proclaimed “love them and leave them type.” The only reason he had slept with Alexis was that John said they needed more information.

 _Maybe if I’d been better in bed, she would’ve told me she was the skinwalker,_ Dean bitterly thought to himself.

It wasn’t the first time Dean had slept with a witness to get more information. It wasn’t even the first time his dad told him (or rather, heavily implied) that he should sleep with a witness to get more information. This was the first time that the monster they were hunting was the one who had been in his bed a few days ago.

So yes, Dean was not a romantic. But he remembered looking down at Alexis, spread out against the bed. In that moment he thought to himself that the dark blue sheets looked like the night sky and Alexis, with her hair spread out like a halo, looked like an angel. He thought that maybe, when they finished the hunt, Dean could convince his dad to part with him for a little while. He could pretend to be hunting with Lee or something. And maybe he could go back to that crappy backwater town with the crappy motel that had dark blue sheets, find the girl who looked like an angel, and maybe he could get to know her better.

He thought sometimes about his conquests. He always made half-formed plans to go back to Lisa and spend another weekend in her loft, defacing every surface they didn’t manage to fuck on last time.

The snow was stained red. The corpse was sinking deeper into the snow. On her naked body, Dean could still see the little marks he had left on her four days ago. Little, irreversible marks that proved Dean Winchester had been there.

Lost in his thoughts, Dean failed to notice his father’s approach until John went ahead and clapped him on the back.

“Nice work, son,” John said. He plopped a duffle next to the corpse and took off his gloves so he could undo the zipper. “She was the skinwalker, right?”

“Yes sir,” Dean replied somewhat numbly. “Alexis. She was one of the witnesses we interviewed.”

“What a twist,” John said, as though this were a television show he found mildly entertaining. He pulled a small, sharp knife from the duffle. John liked to call the knife his scalpel. Dean stared at it blankly as John held it out for him to take.

“Son, it’s your kill. You get to do the honors. I’ll look around for a place to stash the body.”

Right. The silver bullet. How could Dean forget? There was no exit wound on her back.

He took the knife.

Dean bit down on his gloves to remove them. The cold air stung.

Silver was a commodity. Hunters couldn’t afford to leave silver bullets behind. They were always saved, melted down again, and reshaped into more monster kryptonite.

Dean cut into her, right between her breasts. He watched for a moment as blood began to pour out. It dripped down her sides and fell into the snow. One of Dean’s footprints started filling with blood.

Dean thrust his hand into her body. It was still warm. It wouldn’t be for long. She was naked and laying in the snow, after all.

He moved his hand carefully inside of her, searching for the bullet. It took him a few minutes of rummaging to find it. Eventually, he did. He pulled out his blood-covered hands and dropped the silver bullet into the duffle, not caring that the blood would probably get on their weapons. He pulled back on his gloves, covering up his stained hands, and stared at his footprints in the snow. The blood that had pooled in one had already started freezing over.

**…**

Dean was a little bit drunk. Not a lot drunk, but a little bit drunk.

In his inebriated state, the bass from the music sounded fun and not annoying. The too-bright LED lights that flashed across the dancefloor seemed mesmerizing and didn’t look like an eyesore.

Dean had lost count of how many shots he had downed, but he had a very high alcohol tolerance. He was fine!

That’s exactly what he told Lee when Lee suggested he slow down on the booze. What a hypocrite! Like Lee didn’t drink like a sailor too.

Dean tried to call his friend a hypocrite, but the word got stuck in his throat and came out closer to, “Hippo Cricket.” He stumbled a bit and Lee reached out to grab him.

“Dean--”

“Lee, ‘m fine, man!” Dean exclaimed, pushing Lee away. “Th’ hunt is over. Live a little!”

As soon as Dean mentioned the hunt, his mind was filled with the image of that girl, a seven-year-old girl, that he and Lee were too late to save. They salted and burned the right bones in the end, but their failure ended a life. A little girl was dead because Dean was _stupid, stupid, stupid--_

Dean grabbed another shot off the bar and gulped it quickly, letting the burn of the alcohol distract from the burn of failure.

“I’m gonna dance,” he told Lee decisively, stumbling his way onto the dance floor in search of some pretty girl to dance with. It didn’t take long until someone sidled up against him with a wink and a grin, trying to communicate with their eyes rather than with words because the music was too loud. As an answer, Dean flipped the girl around and placed his hands lightly on her hips. The girl began to grind against him, and Dean allowed his body to relax into the music and sway around in a drunken manner while clutching her hips tighter.

It was difficult to tell what color the girl’s hair was with all the multi-colored LED’s distorting it, but it was cut short in a cute boy-cut and Dean imagined running his fingers through it and just tugging lightly. The girl had on skinny jeans that clung in all the right places and a crop top that showed off the flat plane of her stomach. Dean let his hands wander upwards slightly, teasing along her sides as he felt himself beginning to harden in his jeans. The girl seemed to feel this shift and turned herself around.

Dean felt a matching hardness press against his thigh. 

Stunned into a moment of sobriety, Dean pulled away.

A guy. It was a guy. A feminine guy, sure. But a guy nonetheless.

Brows furrowing, the man tried to once again sidle up to Dean. He was very pretty, Dean thought absentmindedly. If this dude was a chick, he’d be taking her to his motel.

What the fuck was he thinking?

The guy took Dean’s moment of confusion as an opportunity to wrap his arms up and around Dean’s shoulders, sliding his thigh slightly between Dean’s bowlegs and grinding once again. A spark of arousal coursed down Dean’s spine and coiled in his stomach at the return of the teasing pressure. He let himself sink into the touch for a moment before pulling away again and making his way off the dancefloor. The guy followed behind him, taking Dean’s sudden movement as an invitation to go somewhere else together.

When they moved a fair distance away from speakers, the guy playfully pushed Dean against the club wall and asked, “Hey hot stuff. Are we leaving the dance floor so soon?”

“Get off ‘a me,” Dean said, shoving the stranger away.

“Oh, don’t be like that, sugar,” the man insisted.

“Look, I don’t swing that way,” 

“You seemed pretty interested out on the floor,” the man replied with a smirk. His eyes flicked down to Dean’s crotch and back up as he slowly stepped closer again. 

Dean could see the light stubble on the man’s cheeks and the way his lips were pouted out just ever so slightly. He really was pretty.

Dammit, he was really wasted.

So when the man leaned in and placed a soft, nearly chaste kiss on his lips, Dean didn’t freak out. He leaned forwards and captured the man’s lips in his once more. And then again. And again.

And when had Dean swapped their positions to press the man up against the wall? When had he allowed his mouth to fall open so the other man could lick into it? When had Dean shifted his leg forwards so the man could grind against it--

What the fuck was he doing?

Dean’s head swam and he pushed away suddenly, he was pulling back. The music seemed deafening. The LED lights were blinding. The man looked utterly debauched. The only thing holding him upright was the dirty club wall. His lips were kiss-swollen and wet. Dean had done that. Dean had made out with some random guy (fuck, he didn’t even know his _name_ ) in some seedy club while wasted.

And fuck, he was wasted. He was _wasted_. The world was swimming in front of him. It was easy to forget how wasted he was on the dance floor where everyone was drunk and swaying, but now Dean was aware of how fuzzy he felt. He turned away from the man and ran. Or at least he tried to. He was stumbling more than he was running. He bumped into people as he went, trying to put as much distance between himself and that man who he had… No, don’t think about it.

Dean somehow managed to find the bathroom and crashed his way in, locking himself into a stall and violently retching up the contents of his stomach.

Lee found him there sometime later and took him back to their motel. Dean woke up the next day with a massive hangover, but he could still remember what had happened. He could still remember the feeling of another man’s stubble scratching his lips and the pressure of a matching hardness grinding against his legs.

Lee didn’t ask Dean any questions, so Dean didn’t say anything at all. They found a hunt together one state over and left memories of the horrible hunt and the seedy club behind them.

Dean swore to himself he would never let himself do that again. It was wrong. He knew it was wrong. He liked women. He didn’t know what had gotten into him. He liked women.

**…**

Dean knew he wasn’t good at very many things. He knew he wasn’t very smart. He knew he couldn’t do math for shit, or study Shakespeare, or debate philosophy without getting a migraine. Hell, he had barely managed to get his GED. He wasn’t artistic. He could hold a tune in karaoke, sure. But Dean was sure his singing wasn’t anything spectacular.

Dean knew that besides hunting, he had no real skills, no knowledge, and certainly no future. Hunting was what John had taught him to do. It was the only life Dean was equipped to handle. He knew that choosing this life meant he was gonna die young. He knew he wouldn’t be able to grow old and settle down with a wife and 2.5 kids. 

Sam would, though. That thought made Dean smile sometimes. Even if it hurt that Sam had left them for Stanford. And hell, that had hurt. Still hurts. Dean called Sam once a month to check-in. The calls didn’t last long. They were awkward. Mostly, they called each other to make sure the other wasn’t dead. John hadn’t talked to Sam at all since he left.

Maybe a clean cut was best for Sam. Sam was smart in all the ways Dean wasn’t. He could see a life outside of hunting. Sam wasn’t destined for the same tragic fate all hunters were destined for.

And Dean was fine with that. He was content that his life would end bloody and short. He was content that Sammy made it out of this life and would get to live his life to the fullest. Dean was a realist, but he didn’t resent the choices he made for himself. Hell, he didn’t even regret the choices John made by raising him in this life. He had made peace with his reality.

In moments like these, though, Dean felt more than just at peace. He felt more than just content. He felt happy. Pure, unadulterated joy.

John was giving him a lopsided grin and dropped the keys into his Dean’s hands.

“She’s all yours, son,” John said. 

“D-dad? Are you sure?” Dean asked again.

“What can I say? Had an offroad case. Bobby gave me this old truck of his, and I think it’s a good fit. You’ve always loved this car more than I did, anyway,” John said.

Dean didn’t know what to say. The Impala was like his dad’s first child. Dean loved the car, of course. Hell, he liked cars in general. Maybe that was just a result of helping Bobby out at the salvage yard afterschool. Dean knew that one day the car would be his, but he always imagined that he would only get the car once John had died.

“Thanks, Dad,” Dean said softly. He stepped forwards and gently ran his hands along the side of the car.

“I expect you to take good care of her, of course,” John said with a wide smile.

“Yeah. Yeah of course. I promise I’ll keep her real nice,” Dean responded immediately.

“I’m proud of you, son,” John said earnestly. “There’s no one else I’d trust to look after her. You’re a good hunter, Dean. You deserve a good ride instead of that crap Corolla you and Lee have.”

Dean let out a bark of laughter. Lee’s car really was crap.

**…**

Dean had worked with a lot of hunters over the years. He avoided solo hunts. Things went smoother when there was backup. Tim, Walt, and Roy were handy in a fight but weren’t too great at getting through interviews or doing research. Martin and Caleb called him up sometimes if John couldn’t do a hunt with them and they needed help, but Dean always felt that they treated him like a child.

Lee on the other hand… Well, he and Dean worked together like a well-oiled machine. Together, they made their way from hunt to hunt, through nameless town after nameless town, from crummy motel to even crummier motels.

The duo had just finished a hunt. Simple salt and burn. Quick, easy, and best of all, no one died. Dean and Lee decided to celebrate and booked two separate motel rooms for the night. Dean picked someone up before the sun had even set and took her back to the motel, waving quickly to Lee who was chatting up a woman at the bar.

Dean’s hookup didn’t want to stick around after they had their fun (which was fine by Dean. It’s not like he was a _cuddler_ or anything). As he politely held the door open for her, running his hand through his sex tosseled hair, he caught sight of Lee leading his own hookup to his motel room.

It took Dean a moment to process what he was seeing.

Lee was leading someone who was definitely not a girl into his hotel room.

Lee was leading a manly man, wearing flannel and sporting a 5-o’clock shadow, by the hand, into his motel room.

Lee let the door shut behind them, but not before Dean caught a glimpse of him leaning forwards to place a kiss on his hookup’s mouth.

Dean wasn’t quite sure how long he stood in the doorway staring towards Lee’s long-closed door. Dean’s own hookup must have left.

At some point, Dean closed the door and sat down on his bed.

Dean didn’t know that Lee was…. Like that.

Lee had hooked up with women before. Dean knew he had. Hell, he walked in on it once. Lee was masculine and strong. He was the best hunting partner Dean had worked with. It didn’t make sense that Lee could be like that.

Dean remembered Bobby telling him and his dad once that there was a hunter up in New York who was killed by a shifter. John had snorted into his beer and muttered something about how he had heard all about that hunter.

Dean was thirteen at the time, but he remembered what his dad had proclaimed. “I warned Chris when he started hunting that the job wasn’t for him. I’m not a hateful person, but this job isn’t cut out for pansies. You have to be right in the head to work this job.”

Bobby had given John a strange look. “Chris was gay and died on the job, John. You’re right about that. But I know plenty of men who weren’t who died on the job just the same.”

It was at that point that John had rolled his eyes petulantly and turned to Dean. “Son, you know that a man’s supposed to be with a woman and a woman with a man, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Anyone who says or does otherwise is wrong in the head, Dean. Remember that.”

Dean remembered that. Did that mean Lee was wrong in the head? 

Dean didn’t care what other people got up to in their own lives. He certainly wasn’t grossed out by what other people choose for themselves, and he definitely didn’t have any religious objections.

No, Dean thought to himself, Lee was perfectly fine for choosing to be that way.

But Dean knew right then that he wouldn’t be able to hunt with Lee anymore.

If his dad found out…

Well, he would take the Impala back, for sure. 

Phantom pains sneaked their way up Dean’s arms and he rested his head in his hands in defeat. Fuck.

John wouldn’t be happy if he found out Dean was working with someone not right in the head. John would be furious. Because people like Lee just couldn’t do a job like this.

Dean didn’t sleep much that night. He left Dean a voicemail in the morning saying his dad needed him on a hunt and he had to go. Dean hopped in the Impala and drove for the entire day.

Dean did not hunt with Lee again.

**…**

Life was shit. Shit went down in Albuquerque. Dean wasn’t quite sure what the whole story was, but John told him enough that he knew it wasn’t good. Martin checked himself into a mental hospital. John coped by drinking. Dean started doing solo hunts because there weren’t enough hunters around to back him up. At some point, he found himself working a poltergeist case up in Minnesota when he met her.

Cassie Robinson had been one of the reporters who covered the Jones' murders. Dean was able to clean up the case pretty quickly thanks to how much information Cassie was able to give him. She was smart and pretty and self-assured. Dean knew he was good looking. He knew how to charm the ladies. For the first time, maybe ever, Dean realized that this woman, this _amazing_ woman, might be out of his league. Someone like that wouldn’t want someone like Dean, even for a hookup.

But to his surprise, after he wrapped the case, he got a call from Cassie inviting him to dinner. So Dean stayed in town for a few more days. And then some more days after that.

He fell into a pattern. He would research cases for Bobby and go on dates with Cassie. He settled into a somewhat normal routine in the small Minnesota town. Sure, he was living in a motel; but that was about as normal as it got for a Winchester.

At some point, Dean ended up spending more nights at Cassie’s house than he did at the crummy motel he was living in. Vaguely he realized that he had stayed in this town for two months, which meant he hadn’t been on a hunt for two months.

It was wonderful.

He never wanted this to end.

So he told Cassie everything.

And she told him to get his stuff and go.

“Don’t call me again. Do you think this is funny? Ghosts? Are you fucking kidding me?”

A door slammed in his face.

Dean wondered why he ever thought Cassie would believe him. He had pretended to be normal for two months. Of course she would be upset when she learned that the act Dean had been putting on was all a lie.

**…**

Dean had finished a hunt when he got the call from Bobby.

“Have you heard from your father, Dean?”

“No. He hasn’t called me in a month, at least. Why? Is something wrong?”

Dean heard Bobby sigh over the phone. “I’ve called to check in on him a few times. I haven’t gotten any answers. I’ve called every hunter I know, which is all of them. None of them have seen or heard from him. Dean, he went on a hunting trip last I heard. I thought maybe you’d like to check up on it.”

“Yeah, Bobby. Thanks. Uh, lemme grab a pen. I’ll write this down.”

Bobby told Dean everything he knew about John’s whereabouts before he went off the grid. He had been working a case in California. Bobby hadn’t seen any local reports, so his father hadn’t shown up dead in that area, at least. But it wasn’t like him to go radio silent.

“Thanks, Bobby.”

“You should probably tell Sam too, you know,” Bobby said gruffly. “I know you two ain’t talking much. Or at all. But John’s his father too.”

“Yeah. I’ll tell him. Uh, bye, Bobby.”

**…**

Stanford was not that far out of the way. Dean decided just to go to Sam’s place. Even if he called, he wasn’t too sure Sam would even pick up. But he needed the backup. Every hunter was working their own case at the moment. Sam left the life, sure. But this was their dad. He’d help. He’d have to help.

“Dad’s been on a hunting trip. And he hasn’t been home in a few days.”

Sam agreed to work the case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for all the angst. I swear that this story WILL NOT be all angst!!!
> 
> Leave a comment telling me what you thought. Did you love it? Hate it? Do you want to reach through your screen and strangle John Winchester for instilling homophobic ideas in Dean, cause I do.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the angst.
> 
> Constructive criticism is appreciated in the comments. <3 If you want to follow me on Twitter, my account is @faceMcnerd. 
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read, and I hope you are as excited as me for the rest of this fic! *hugs*


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